


I Know It When I See it.

by scarletjedi



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Complete, D/s undertones, Friends to Lovers, Jealous!Spock, M/M, Porn, Top!McCoy, mild bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:57:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8328808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: Spock, in the course of fulfilling his duties as first officer, discovers that, in his youth, Doctor McCoy starred in pornographic videos. He also discovers that he is a jealous man.





	1. Obtaining

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by a tumblr post by TAKFAB, where she mentioned a plunny where McCoy did porn in his youth. I took it, and ran with it back to TOS. :)

It had long been Spock’s custom to take his meals in the main common area, with the rest of the crew. In the pursuit of his duties as first officer, it was only logical to be among the crew to assess their well being with his “boots on the ground,” as it were. Among a mostly human crew, he had found that reports were only a percentage of the total picture and that he was best served by trusting his own judgement in such matters. When command of the Enterprise had been transferred to James Kirk, Spock saw no reason to stop this practice. In fact, his time in the common areas increased.

Spock played his harp for Uhura when she sang, though he never offered his own voice to the chorus. On the whole, Vulcan singing was uncomfortable to human ears, and if Spock had inherited his singing voice from the human half of his parentage, his human half sang like a Vulcan. Still, Spock played chess with whomever wished, usually the captain and occasionally Mr. Scott (whose style was closer to Spock’s own than the Captain’s, and was quite skilled--although Spock’s skills were naturally far superior). He even indulged Yeoman Rand one evening with a game of Go: a most fascinating game, and the Yeoman was quite an accomplished player. In the end, Spock lost two of three games, and was forced to turn a blind eye to the exchange of credit among the crew. 

Most pleasantly, however, Spock and Doctor McCoy had pursued some of their more...frivolous debates in the main common area, over a shared meal. While Spock would not deny his relationship with the Chief Medical officer began rather tumultuous, Spock had quickly come to recognize the Doctor’s valuable qualities. McCoy had a quick and surprisingly logical mind for one so prone to blatant emotionalism, and it made their debates akin to Spock’s chess games with the Captain: Spock’s logic pitted against intuition and risk. While Spock could not in all honestly claim to have one every debate, he more often than not left with the last word. 

It was almost as satisfying. 

McCoy seemed to feel the same way, and in the months after McCoy’s transfer to the Enterprise, and after only a few weeks of Spock deliberately instigating a debate--when Spock made of his more subtle overtures, McCoy had--quite surprisingly--laughed. 

“I know what you’re doin’,” McCoy had drawled. Spock had raised his eyebrow in return, the gesture, for some reason, making McCoy’s smirk grow. 

“Indeed, Doctor,” Spock had said. “I would not be attempting to engage in a debate with you if I felt you were not capable of at least a modicum of logical thought.” Spock knew that his words were snappish; while not unheard of for a Vulcan, it was an aspect of Spock’s personality that had won him no close companions in childhood. As an adult, it helped preserve his dignity among those who were largely unfamiliar with Vulcan culture. 

Doctor McCoy, however, was neither of those things. 

“Imagine that,” McCoy had said. He didn’t comment further, and Spock was left wondering if McCoy was referring to Spock’s frank admission of his actions, or the backhanded compliment. He did, however, continue on to explain just why, exactly, Spock was wrong. 

Spock hadn’t been wrong, but it was always gratifying to hear McCoy try. 

Presently, an unexpected fluctuation in the magnetic fields that surrounded the ship had the side effect of accelerating the results of his latest experiment, and thereby nullifying the results. He would have to start over, but for the moment he resigned himself to recording the unfortunate outcome, cleaning up his station, and adjourning for an early lunch. Perhaps Jim would be free for a game of chess. He found their matches quite illuminating, and it was quite worth the risk of losing to gain further insight into the Captain’s mind. So far, Spock had yet to come to a satisfactory conclusion. If Spock believed in such superstitions, he would say, in the words of Dr. McCoy, that Jim had “the Devil’s own luck.” 

Dr McCoy, Spock had observed, never played chess. “No,” McCoy had said when Spock had asked, “I’ll leave the war games to you command types, but if you ever need a third for poker, well,” he had grinned, wide and easy. “I’m your man.” 

Jim had grinned back at that, and Spock had looked between them, sure he was missing some vital clue, but unable to parse their meaning. He did not think it was sexual, as there had been no hint of sexual attraction between Jim and McCoy that Spock had been able to observe. Spock had known Jim for long enough that he was sure he would recognize the signs in him, if nothing else. Dr. McCoy, on the other hand, proved to be both harder and easier to read. For a human so effusive, the good doctor let out very little personal information. 

Walking into the main recreational deck, Spock stopped in the doorway when several smaller groups, who had all previously been talking and laughing among themselves, fell suddenly quiet. It was not the first time someone had fallen silent at his approach--again, usually due to the discussion of sexual matters, as if such things were unfit for Spock’s hearing. Once, under the command of Captain Pike, Spock had tried to explain to the crewman that Spock took no offense at such discussion, but it had only resulted in the crewmen requesting to be transferred to another part of the ship, and then off the Enterprise entirely, apparently unable to leave behind his embarrassment at being “caught out” by Spock. Captain Pike had been understanding of what he called a “serious case of culture clash” and had taken Spock aside to explain a few things, and Spock had never again attempted candid address of sexual matters with human crew--not even, in fact, when such discussion could have saved him some discomfort during his interrupted _pon farr_. 

Spock raised an eyebrow at the closest group, a team of engineers currently assigned to zeta shift. None would meet his eye. _Fascinating._ Even when caught, statistically at least one would attempt to meet his eyes in an attempt to brazen out feelings of guilt. Logically, this meant that the guilt was greater than average. 

Perhaps this was not a conversation of sexual conquest. Spock made note to discover what it was the group was discussing as he continued into the room, heading for the replicator. If the strange behavior continued, Spock could and would investigate the issue outright. If it desisted, then Spock would consider it a...fluke, and his inquiry would be rather more discrete. 

Spock programmed his lunch--a earth dish consisting of the soybean curd “tofu” and rice noodles in a spicy peanut sauce that he had grown fond of. The replicators were still not entirely accurate on Vulcan cuisine--and by the time he had retrieved his tray, the doors opened and Jim and McCoy entered. 

The most curious thing; many of groups who had quieted upon Spock’s entrance began to show signs of distress, quickly hiding datapads and exchanging looks. The group of crewmen from engineering went so far as to quickly up and leave, passing behind the captain with such swiftness that Spock raised an eyebrow that Jim did not seem to notice them. 

_Fascinating._

“Mr. Spock,” Jim called to him as they approached. The Captain appeared in a good mood, jovial and friendly rather than official, despite his use of Spock’s title address. 

“Captain,” Spock returned in the same tone, and Jim grinned at him, quickly clapping him on the shoulder as was his custom. As usual, Spock felt a quick flash of Jim, an impression like a 21st century photograph: _Calm, Tired, Pleased, Worried_. It was easy enough to put a reason to each emotion. Calm for the lull between destinations. Tired, still, from last week’s encounter with the Romulans. Pleased to be with his friends, Spock and Dr. McCoy. Worried because the encounters with the Romulans were growing more and more bold, and it was the captain prerogative to carry that with him. 

“Spock, I didn’t know you liked Thai food,” McCoy said as a greeting. 

“Indeed,” Spock said, waiting as the two replicated their own meals. “My first ship was unable to replicate Vulcan cuisine, and so I was forced to improvise. I found the textures of this dish pleasing, the flavors inviting, and the spice invigorating.”

Jim turned from the machine, his tray holding his usual fare: a meat-filled sandwich, a piece of fruit, and a cup of coffee. This time, if Spock’s sense of smell was accurate, it was a tuna fish salad sandwich, and the fruit was a green apple. McCoy’s tray had a bowl of soup, a familiar vegetable soup that Spock had considered for his own meal before deciding in favor of the complex carbohydrates. There was a table nearby, one that could easily sit four in a circle, and Jim placed his tray down quickly, and Spock and McCoy followed suit.

“And now that you can get Vulcan cuisine?” McCoy asked, his question drawled out more than his usual, but Spock could still detect no trace of mockery. 

It deserved, Spock felt, an honest answer. 

“While this ship’s replicators are performing at peak capacity, I find that there are certain nuanced elements of most of Vulcan cuisine that the replicators simply fail to recreate. I have several theories as to why this is, including the possibility of the difference in palate between humans and Vulcans. There may simply be flavors that humans cannot taste and therefore are not programmed into the replicator.” 

Jim, mouth full of tuna sandwich, looked at him as he chewed. He seemed to be smiling, though he was polite enough to keep his lips pressed together. McCoy, on the other hand, was openly grinning. 

“They just don’t cut it, do they,” he said, and though the statement was in the form of a question, McCoy’s tone implied that it was, in fact, a statement. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I believe I said as much.” 

Jim was outright laughing now, and McCoy’s grin had gained teeth. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Spock,” Jim said, his mouth thankfully clear of sandwich. “They don’t get Earth food one-hundred percent right, either.” 

“Nothing compares to food grown in the dirt, Spock.” McCoy said. “Never will. In fact,” McCoy gestured towards him with his soup spoon. “Next time we’re planetside, I’ll make you the famous McCoy family chow-chow--it’s a traditional relish, all vegetable and it’s hotter than Atlanta in August. I think you’ll like it.” 

“Indeed,” Spock said, both his eyebrows raising in surprise. “I appreciate the offer, Doctor. Thank you.” 

McCoy waved it off. “Don’t mention it. I can’t make you the fried chicken, or the biscuits in gravy--they’re made with sausage, you see. But family recipes are meant to be shared--at least the food is.” McCoy winked. “The actual secret is guarded better than Klingon space.” 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “It is protected by a fleet of Warbirds and a neutral zone?” 

McCoy scowled and dipped his spoon in his soup. “Don’t get cocky, or I’ll keep all the chow-chow for myself,” he said, and ate his spoonful. He frowned at the soup. “I bet it’d even make this taste better.” 

Jim was still smiling at them, his grin wider now that he had finished his sandwich. It was a habit Spock had noticed with Jim: he always cleared his plate before speaking, and he ate with quick yet paced bites. It was very different from McCoy’s leisurely pace, or the quick bites when sickbay was overrun and McCoy had “too much to do, dammit, I’ll eat properly when I’m done and not a minute before.” Spock did not think McCoy would really withhold his chow-chow, but Spock let the matter rest, just in case. 

Spock considered bringing up the strange actions of the crewmen, but ultimately decided against it. He would investigate himself first; there was no need to bring up what could honestly be a matter of no consequence, after all. Still, he would need to discover their item of interest quickly, and Spock knew exactly who to speak to. 

***

Scotty was unusually unwilling to provide Spock with the information he needed. 

“Mr. Scott,” Spock said, interrupting the Chief Engineer as he breathed in to begin yet another prevarication. “Please answer simply. Do you or do you not know what it is that has been distracting the crew? May I remind you that your own department is the most visibly affected.” 

Scotty sighed. “Aye, I know what it is.” 

“Very good,” Spock said. “May you please tell me what it is?” 

Scotty pursed his lips, his jaw twisting his chin to the side as he studies Spock for a long moment. He breathed out heavily through his nose. “I can do ye one better,” he said, resigned, and walked over to his console. He pulled out a data disk and inserted it into the computer. Yet, instead of speaking his commands aloud, as was his habit, he began to type the commands manually. Spock raised an eyebrow at the level of discretion--or was it simply for silence? What was this thing that had even Scotty afraid to speak aloud? 

After a moment, when the computer had finished whirring through its task, Scotty removed the data disk and held it out to Spock. “This is a copy of the file,” he said, and yet when Spock reached out to take the disk, Scotty held it firm for a moment. “I hope yer ready fer this, lad.” 

Spock raised both eyebrows, before one sank back down. “I am a fully trained--”

“Aye, that’s not what I meant,” Scotty said, and released the data disk. Spock looked down at his prize. It felt warm in his hand, which was impossible. Even the prolonged contact of Scotty wouldn’t imbue the disk with so much warmth. Here it was; the answer to his little mystery. 

Spock looked up. “Thank you, Mr Scott.” 

But Scotty waved him off. “Don’t thank me, and if he asks, I didn’t give it to you.” 

Spock blinked. “To whom are you referring?” 

Scotty just shook his head, waving his hand at Spock as he turned away to resume his duties. Spock watched him go, and then placed the disk carefully in his uniform pocket. The first chance he would get to view the disk was not for several hours, when his leisure time began. He would view it then, before his customary dinner in the lounge. Perhaps he would see if McCoy would indulge him in a debate.

Resolute, Spock turned and returned to the bridge for the rest of his shift.


	2. Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to TAKFAB for the continual inspiration for this fic :)

Vulcans possessed a much more refined sense of passing time than humans, and therefore were largely immune to the phenomenon of time dilation as a result of personal perception. And yet, the rest of Spock’s shift seemed to crawl by. It was troubling that the prospect of finally finding the solution to the morning’s mystery would affect him so dramatically. Obviously, Spock had miscalculated his investment in the matter. Perhaps he should meditate before viewing the data disk, to regain his equilibrium and allow him to process the information at an optimal level. 

 

The third time Spock caught himself before he made a minor error, he began to doubt that he would be able to effectively meditate, either. 

 

Still, time did pass, and at last Jim clapped his hands together as the first crewmen began reporting for beta shift. 

 

“Well,” Jim said. “There’s the final whistle. It’s quitting time, boys and girls.” 

 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I heard no whistle,” he said. “Are you certain your hearing hasn’t been affected? Perhaps Doctor McCoy—“

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Spock saw Lt. Sulu exchange an amused look with Ensign Chekov. Even Lt. Uhura seemed to be suppressing a smile as she handed over her station to Lt. Carlyle. Jim, however, played right into it. 

 

“No, no, Spock. There was no actual whistle.” Jim explained, his grin fading but not gone entirely. “It’s an expression.” 

 

Spock looked at Jim for a beat, before he raised his chin. “Oh, of course. A final whistle, as a reference to nineteenth and twentieth century factories, which used a series of bells and whistles to denote the various changes in shifts.” 

 

Jim’s smile had frozen, almost wiped from his face, but his eyes were narrowed suspiciously. “You knew what it was in reference to,” he said. 

 

“I did,” Spock confirmed. 

 

Jim sucked on a tooth. “You were having me on.” 

 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I was simply attempting to—“

 

“Mess with me; to fool with my perceptions of your understanding of Earth culture for the purpose of amusement,” Jim interrupted. Spock blinked. 

 

“Yes,” he said, his tone indicating that it was the only logical conclusion, and therefore _obvious._

 

Jim grinned. “Spock, I’m proud of you.” 

 

Spock nodded, lowering his eyes for a moment, before standing at last. “Thank you Captain,” he said, and fell into step with Jim as they entered the turbolift. 

 

“Deck Three,” Jim announced, and the lift began to move. “Spock, I’m famished. Would you care to join me for dinner?” 

 

The data disk felt suddenly heavy in Spock’s pocket. It was almost enough to make Spock question the relative physics of their artificial gravity. 

 

“I’m afraid I have some business to attend to,” Spock said. It would be unwise to delay any further. The distraction would only serve to make him snappish. Jim seemed to deflate, and Spock cleared his throat. “I would be amenable to a game of chess in the lounge, however, after I’ve attended to my business?” 

 

Jim beamed at him, clapping him on the shoulder. _Affection. Pleasure. Loneliness. Hunger._ “I look forward to it. Say…two hours from now? Would that give you time?” 

 

As Spock considered, the doors of the lift opened and they stepped out into the hallway. The odds that the disk contained more than an hour’s worth of material were minor, and over two hours was even smaller. He nodded. “Two hours should be more than sufficient.” 

 

“Good,” Jim said, looking about at the crew members who passed around them. “Maybe then you’ll tell me what’s been bothering you all shift.” 

 

Spock blinked in honest surprise. He hadn’t realized that he’d been so obvious that the captain noticed. Jim was looking straight at Spock this time, his gaze frank and nonjudgmental, though there was concern there—and the knowledge that Jim could order Spock to tell him; he was giving him the chance to explain himself first. 

 

Spock took a deep breath. “I encountered something before shift today that has given me pause. My business involves further study of the issue. It is not yet apparent if it is an issue worth the time of the ship’s captain, but if my two hours do not prove fruitful, I will of course consult you, Jim.” 

 

Spock didn’t call Jim by his given name often, no matter how often he thought of him thus. They were rarely in a place where it was permissible, let alone appropriate. His use of it now was calculated. It said “as my friend, trust me with this.” 

 

Jim looked at him, with far more of the Captain on his face than Spock felt entirely comfortable with, but he nodded his acquiescence. “Sure, Spock. I’ll see you then.” 

 

“Captain,” Spock said with a slight bow. Jim returned it with a nod, and turned down the next hallway. As he left, Spock heard him mutter something about getting a crowbar to pry McCoy out of sickbay. _That would be pleasant,_ Spock thought. Though McCoy did not play, his presence during Jim and Spock’s matches was often appreciated. 

 

Once Jim was out of sight, Spock turned and entered his quarters. 

 

“Computer, lock door. Priority access one,” he called once the doors closed behind him. Access one allowed only those of higher rank to access the room, in this case Jim—and of course, McCoy had his medical override. It was as secure as Spock could make it without his increased security being logged in records other than his own. 

 

Spock still wasn’t sure why he was being so reticent. Jim had asked; it would have been easy and appropriate for Spock to tell Jim what had happened. Yet—there was something about the overt reactions of the crew, of Scotty’s reluctance and grudging acceptance. This was the correct course of action, if not exactly the most logical. 

 

Slowly, Spock was getting used to encountering those situations. He was improving in his methods of handling events as they came to... “following his gut.” 

 

He sat at his computer, inserting the disk into the slot. “Computer, activate Security Protocol Gamma.” 

 

“Accessing…” The computer blipped and whirred as it processed. Protocol Gamma disabled the standard logs, leaving only Spock’s personal log intact. “Activated: Security Protocol Gamma.” If the disk was innocuous, Spock could restore the ship’s logs from his personal log, but it would raise too many questions if Spock had need to remove the next few minutes from the log after the fact. 

 

“Analyze content: data disk.” 

 

“Analyzing,” the computer said promptly. “Contents include a multi-media single file, with visual and audio components. File was created over ten standard Earth years ago. Exact date of origin—“ 

 

“Irrelevant,” Spock said. “Lights, fifty percent.” The lights dimmed around him, reducing the possibility of glare. “Play file.” 

 

The dark view screen woke quickly, the picture blooming in full color—it was a landscape image: a wooden barn painted red against a blue sky and fields browning from the harvest rather than drought. An earth scene; American rural. There was some hint of elevation to the landscape, so the video was taken on either coast rather than the flat midlands, but Spock could not pinpoint which coast. The image was steady and surprisingly clear, and if not for the buzz of the audio, Spock would have assumed it was a still image, for how little it moved. Whoever had created this had professional quality equipment. 

 

The image faded in a sideways crawl, revealing a change in scenery. The lighting was darker, and Spock quickly realized it was because they had moved in doors. Presumably, they were inside the barn. It was well lit, belying the presence of stage lights, and there was a single person present on camera. It was a human man, dressed his a long-sleeved tan shirt of a “western” style, and form-fitting blue jeans tucked into boots. He was faced away from the camera, tossing bales of hay from a pile onto a, mostly full, cart. His movement was graceful and rhythmic, and though his muscles weren’t clearly defined through the shirt, Spock could tell that the young man was very fit. 

 

Spock frowned. So far, the video was rather innocuous. Why had this garnered such a strong response?

 

Just then, the man turned around to face the camera, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He was wearing leather work gloves, and for a moment, they obscured his face. But when his arm lowered, and he faced the camera with an easy grin, Spock felt his breath catch. He knew that grin, easy and sure—the way it creased his cheeks and make his eyes twinkle, so bright and yet so pale against the sun-darkened skin of his face. For a brief moment, Spock looked into the face of a young Leonard McCoy. 

 

Spock paused the file, and felt a sinking in his gut war with a tingling excitement that spread from his abdomen: No wonder the crewmen reacted with such fear. If Doctor McCoy knew they had unearthed something from his rarely spoken of past—

 

Just what kind of a movie was this? (Spock had a suspicion. The isolated setting. The music. The way McCoy’s shirt was just barely not too tight.) Spock licked his lower lip, a tick he hadn’t let himself indulge in since he was twelve standard, and resumed play. 

 

McCoy’s focus shifted to someone just off camera, someone who quickly walked into frame. Also male, this newcomer was larger, physically, than McCoy, practically swollen with muscle. His head was shaved clean, and his clothes were just as tight. He reached out as he walked in, and McCoy reached back. Still, it wasn’t until this newcomer stepped in to kiss McCoy that Spock was sure as to what he was watching. 

 

“Computer, pause file.” 

 

“File paused.” 

 

It would appear that—

 

Spock now had evidence that—

 

Doctor McCoy once starred in a pornographic film. 

 

Spock was not unfamiliar with Terran masturbatory aids. While a cadet, after hearing some puzzling comments by human cadets, he had availed himself of the Academy Library to research the subject. If his observations were correct, he had surmised, pornography was a key, if hidden, component of Terran life. 

 

So, Spock had learned about the historical significance, from the archeological discovery of early aids, first misunderstood due to the unscientific puritanical bias of the day, to the prevalence of “soft core” pornography in mainstream media in the late twenty-first century. (The latter, however, was mostly speculative, due to the gaps in the historical record. Scholars knew there was some precipitous event between the “blue movies” of the early twentieth century and modern attitudes, but there was no specific information.) 

 

He read about the “Blue Revolution,” which worked to destigmatize sex-work, both for prostitution (which was now a well-regulated profession on Earth), and for pornography. 

 

And yet, many Terrans retained a most juvenile attitude towards the subject. Many refused to discuss the subject with any but close friends or romantic partners. Considering how young the doctor looked here, it was not surprising that he hadn’t disclosed—

 

—and _why_ did he make the film? The universalization of education meant that McCoy did not need funds to pay for education, as was the case for many in the early days of the Blue Revolution. 

 

Did he derive some sexual pleasure from the act? Spock knew some Terrans found visibility—and adrenaline in exposure—to be sexually stimulating. Did McCoy…”get off” on being recorded in sexual situations? 

 

Perhaps there was a clue in the recording itself. 

 

“Computer, resume play.” 

 

The film began once more, and Spock found himself preoccupied by the score—the music itself was uninspired, a lazy instrumental with a suggestive rhythm, but underneath, in the pauses between riffs, Spock could hear the slide of skin against wet skin, the sucking smack of deep kisses—the gasped breaths and faint moans. 

 

The skin at Spock’s temples began to tingle with faint sweat—a precursor to arousal as something primal deep inside him was stirred. 

 

The other man reached out to McCoy’s shirt, unbuttoning it slowly, and Spock found his eyes riveted to the tanned skin underneath. (It had been several weeks since the last shore leave, months since the last time McCoy went planetside. HIs skin would be pale, now, but just as lean, skin still covered with that trail of hair.) McCoy stayed turned towards the camera, the angle displaying his neck in a smooth line that continued down to his increasingly exposed chest. Apparently, McCoy had always been a thin man, but his shirt had hidden surprisingly fit form: he was not obviously sculpted muscle, as was this unidentified man, but his chest spoke of real athletic strength--strength that Spock knew McCoy had retained in his duties, not just as CMO but as a practicing physician. 

Spock had never seen _his_ McCoy shirtless, but, his shirt now completely open to the gentle caresses of the other man, this younger McCoy had given Spock a basis for extrapolation. His mind produced an image, of McCoy removing his blues, the black of his under uniform riding up as he raised his arms over his head, cloth clinging to cloth, and Spock opened his mouth to get more air, licking suddenly dry lips. It didn't help much; his mouth was dry too. Perhaps he needed to drink more water. 

The camera zoomed in on McCoy's chest, the resolution such that Spock could see the sweat beginning to collect and glisten on his skin. He could count hairs, if he truly wanted to, but Spock was struck by the urge, not to count but to _touch,_ to feel the hair coarse against his palm, McCoy's skin smooth and hot under his hand, to feel the muscles flex and blood run and--

A second hand appeared on McCoy's chest, far too dark to belong to either McCoy or the other man, and Spock flat his breath catch as the camera pulled back to reveal not just a new man, but three new men, all of whom took the new angle as their cue to reach out and touch. 

McCoy seemed to have no objections, (a logical part of Spock's brain realized that McCoy would have no objections; he would have known what the video would consist of, and had in fact, consented to the acts depicted.)

 

But Spock--

 

Spock had objections. Spock had deep-seated objections that he could give no name nor word to, and so he stayed silent, teeth grit against some exclamation, and watched as McCoy was slowly yet efficiently stripped of all his clothing. 

And then, McCoy was simply there, bared before him and any who would look, fully aroused and erect as he was handled--fondled. Through it all he kissed each of the men at least once, always coming back to the first man, as if drawn. (Did he know him? Was this inflated stranger a former lover of the good doctor? Would he, too, cross their path as so many of McCoy’s former loves had? Would Spock have to meet this one, too, who had seen--had _had_ \--)

 

The scene changed abruptly, the music cut off mid-refrain. The room fell to silence for one heavy moment before it was filled, not with music, but with moans, grunts, and panting breaths--and the obscene smack of slick skin. 

 

They were all naked now, standing around McCoy in a loose circle, each of them fisting their erections with casual hands (as if the sight of McCoy on his knees in front of them wasn’t enough to keep them hard. Spock felt a hot flare sear through him. They didn’t deserve to be there with him). McCoy was on his knees, his thighs spread, leaving him open. His hands appeared to be tied behind his back, probably with the same rope that Spock could just see at McCoy’s elbow. His skin was flushed halfway down his chest, and his erection hung heavy, swinging with his testes between his legs. (To be that aroused and untouched, McCoy must have greater reserves of self control than Spock thought). 

 

The first man walked around McCoy, as if inspecting him, and touched him idly and without warning. McCoy leaned into each touch--his shoulder, his spine just below his shoulder blades, his buttocks--but his gaze never wavered from where he stared out of the camera, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth supple and softly open. 

 

The man stopped in front of McCoy, sliding his hand through McCoy’s hair and pulling his head back. McCoy went easily, his mouth shining and obscenely wet as the man slid his erection inside, rocking his hips in shallow thrusts. McCoy just took it, eyes intent on the man’s face as the man moaned theatrically. Spock frowned. It was distracting, and he would have muted the sound, but--with every thrust McCoy made a _noise_ that Spock had never heard him make, and he strained his ears to listen for it again. 

 

The scene changed again, this time McCoy was on his knees, his chest braced against a bale of hay. The man was still standing near McCoy’s head, holding his erection steady as he slipped in and out of McCoy’s mouth. One of the other men, another overly-sculpted young man with dark skin and short twists of braids, held McCoy’s buttocks apart with one hand, exposing McCoy’s anus to his fingers, slicked and shining. The second man was thrusting inside with three fingers, and McCoy was making that sound again with every thrust, occasionally muted and choked on the first man’s erection. 

 

The second man was talking, an insipid running monologue of breath sucked through teeth and faint praise. He seemed determined to call McCoy “babe”, even though McCoy was demonstrably not an infant, but unlike the first man’s moans, Spock was able to tune out his commentary, to focus on the dazed look in McCoy’s eyes, the way he seemed almost unaware of the sounds he was making. 

 

The last two men were to the side of the frame, kissing and fondling each other. It was a more logical way, Spock felt, to maintain an erection for the duration of filming, and if they were preoccupied with each other, they weren’t touching his McCoy. 

 

“You ready?” the first man asked, and Spock was surprised to note that this man also had a Georgia accent. It had never occurred to Spock that this would have been filmed close to where McCoy had grown into a man. 

 

The McCoy on screen nodded, and Spock’s eyes grew wide when the second man pulled his fingers free slowly, showing McCoy’s anus to the camera. It looked relaxed and red, shining with lube--it was only on display for a moment before the second man had lined up his erection and pushed inside. McCoy let out a long, low moan, his face pressed against the first man’s hip, ignoring the erection that pushed at his jaw. The man paused for a moment fully inside, waiting for McCoy to nod his head, and then he snapped his hips forward, thrust-- _fucking_ McCoy with short, powerful strokes. 

 

McCoy’s eyes rolled back as he cried out, and it drew the attention of the other two men. Then came closer, coming up behind McCoy as the first man placed his hand on McCoy’s jaw, and pushed his erection once more into McCoy’s mouth. _Both--_ Spock thought. _All?_

 

The scene changed again, this time McCoy sat astride the second man, thrusting himself upon the man’s erection. He still had the first man’s erection in his mouth, but his hands had been freed, and he had one hand each wrapped around the erections of the last two men. Spock was momentarily taken aback by the sheer coordination required by such movement. Then, something dark at the base of McCoy’s erection caught his eye. 

 

“Computer,” Spock said, and was surprised by the hoarseness of his voice. “Enhance picture three-times magnification bottom center.” 

 

“Magnifying,” the computer said, and the image zoomed in on McCoy’s groin. Sure enough, there was a black band snugly fitted against the base of McCoy’s erection, was a black leather band with a quick-release strap. A “cock-ring”, as Spock believed they were called, a device he had learned was intended to artificially delay male orgasm until the device was removed. 

 

_They even controlled--_

 

Onscreen, McCoy began to buck wildly, his head flying back and off the erection of the first man as he fairly howled. It seemed to take the men by surprise. 

 

“Oh, fuck--”

 

“Is he?”

 

“Fuck, I’m coming!” That was the second man, and his thrusts turned erratic until he stopped, still buried deep inside of McCoy. One of the last two men, the one on McCoy’s right, reached down and tugged the cock-ring loose, making McCoy whine, even as his erection was finally able to reach his release. 

 

An answering throb rose from Spock’s own groin, surprising him and his hand reflexively pressed against his own erection--and Spock had just enough presence of mind to bite down on his cry, lest he alert the floor to his activities. He lost his mind to the white-out pleasure for several long moments, and when he had regained himself enough to open his eyes, he saw McCoy, laying naked, spread eagled, and covered in ejaculate, on a pile of hay. He grinned out at the camera, wiggling his fingers in a little wave, and the film went dark, leaving Spock staring at the ghost of his own reflection in the glass of the computer screen. 

 

Spock’s eyes were wide, his pupils blown wide. The color wasn’t accurately depicted, but even in the darkened image, Spock could tell that his face was flushed. For the first time in a long time, Spock’s mind was empty, a perfect meditative peace. 

 

It was not to last, and with a suddenness that rivaled Spock’s own orgasm, guilt and shame filled him, and his cheeks flushed bright green for a different reason. With a shaking hand (not the hand that Spock refused to acknowledge was still pressed down between his legs), Spock manually turned his computer terminal off. 

 

He needed to meditate. He needed--

 

Spock had just watched his friend, the CMO of the Enterprise, have sex with four other men. 

 

He needed--

 

Spock neither stopped the film, nor was able to control his own arousal as a result of his viewing. Despite the permissive nature of filmed pornography, Spock couldn’t help but feel like he had taken _advantage_ of a trust he didn’t know he had. 

 

He--he needed to shower. Jim was expecting him.


	3. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped me get this out!
> 
> EDIT: Updated January 15th, 2017. I was unhappy with how sparse the narrative was, so I've fleshed it out.

Spock was late to the lounge. He calculated that he was only tardy by seven minutes, well within acceptable parameters for reporting for a duty shift, let alone for leisure time, but it was still seven minutes later than his habitual punctuality. McCoy, in one of his more playful moods, had attempted to explain the concept of “fashionably late,” and grew frustrated when Spock could not see past the inefficiency of wasted time.” 

“It’s not about the—it’s about getting noticed, Spock!” McCoy had placed his drink on the table with greater than necessary force--a sign of both his increased emotional state and his state of increased inebriation. “It’s about standing out and making an entrance! Human culture places a lot of value on visibility.” 

Spock paused just outside of the lounge, not quite close enough to trigger the door sensor, remembering the way McCoy’s face had been flushed with alcohol--how it had flushed mid-coitus, captured for anyone to see-- 

_Do not think about McCoy and visibility,_ he instructed himself firmly, forcing the thoughts away. It took much more effort that it should. He very much needed to meditate truly; it had been too long. There was nothing for it now, however. 

Spock took a deep breath and satisfied himself with a moment of active meditation, to force the excessive blood flow away from his face. (A stop-gap measure with ever-diminishing returns. Someone surely would notice sooner rather than later, and Spock _could not let it be seen!_ ) It would not do to enter the lounge flushed.

Only when Spock was once again sure of his composure did he stepped into the lounge – only to falter slightly when he saw Dr. McCoy seated next to Jim at the chess table. ( _Of course Dr. McCoy is here. You heard Jim mention his intention to speak with him. He would appear, conjured like some demon from the sands by the gods of Vulcan, as Spock’s grip on his logic began to weaken. A test? A warning? A temptation?_ )

McCoy was lounging in his seat, legs crossed and one foot bouncing lightly, drawing the eye and Spock’s attention. The good doctor had ever seemed in possession of the near endless supply of energy, and was always moving in such ways. (He’d seen those legs stilled, forced to move under another’s hands, all that energy focused like a phaser blast and just as explosive). In his leisure, McCoy’s gestures were loose, near liquid, and he waved his hands as he talked. He had a drink in his left hand, the glass held loosely in his fingers and the liquid catching the light is it moved. McCoy was laughing at something Jim said, and his face fairly sparkled with _joi de vivre_.

All told, Spock was distracted for less than a second, a hesitation to his gait that was too slight for the average human to register.

McCoy, it seemed, was far from the average human, and his eyes found Spock’s just as he hesitated. ( _Yes, a demon from the sands, sent to spark fire in the blood and drive him mad. Father, so dismissive of other tales, had been careful to tell these tales, always with Mother there, smiling fondly. Did my father spark at the sight of her? Did he feel the same doom before him?_ ) The doctor raised his glass in a salute, the smile never ending, but Spock saw the way his brow furrowed slightly. Spock’s inattention had not gone unnoticed.

“Spock, there you are!” Jim called out, waving him over. _Unfortunately necessary,_ Spock thought, given his distraction. Another moment and he would have retreated to his quarters to seek the solace of his meditations. ( _If solace is still possible._ ) “I assume your research was fruitful.”

Spock paused at his seat, ignoring the easy look between Jim and McCoy. They always did delight too much in Spock’s more emotive moments. "It was … enlightening,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully. “I'm afraid the project is still ongoing, however.” He sat and did his best to ignore the feeling that his fate had been sealed. _Think logically!_ This was the captain! Jim, his friend, who had sacrificed much for Spock’s sake. This was _McCoy,_ who is no more different today than he was yesterday. It is _you_ who has changed, Spock. It is _you_ who must bear the responsibility. 

“Oh?” Jim frowned, and though his overall countenance remained pleasant, Spock could see the keen spark of the captain in them. “Anything that needs my attention?”

“No,” Spock said, perhaps a tad too quickly. “The issue is not beyond my capacity to handle, simply time-consuming.” Yes, time. He needed time. 

“Aren't they always?” McCoy asked, dry. He tilted his glass towards Spock, the golden liquid inside running just up to the lip without spilling over. The refraction of light seemed dazzling to Spock’s eyes. “Make sure you get your full eight, Spock – I don't want you overworking yourself.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, the proper response thankfully coming to him. “As a Vulcan, I require far less sleep on average than a human –”

“It's an expression Spock,” McCoy interrupted, rolling his eyes to the sky. Jim wasn't even trying to hide his grin, and Spock raised his eyebrows at him. For some reason, that just made Jim grin harder. He was missing something, here, something his burning mind could not process. 

It was only his experience with _Pon Farr_ that convinced Spock that his burning time had not come again. That was a burning of the body, with the mind an unfortunate casualty. This was primarily an affliction of the _mind_ , though his body also burned. 

Minds, however, could be controlled. 

“I just want you well-rested, Spock,” McCoy said, and Spock’s mind provided several images as to _why_ McCoy would want Spock well-rested--ways he could ensure that Spock would desire to rest. He pushed them aside. 

“Your concern is noted, Doctor,” Spock said, and when he saw the corners of McCoy’s mouth tighten, like the drawing back of the sands before the storm, he added, “I will rest.” An olive branch. A truce to draw attention away. 

McCoys eyebrows rose high, but he didn't do more than look at Jim, who was grinning hard enough that his face had to hurt.

However, “I do believe it's your move, Mr. Spock,” was all Jim said, and Spock turned his attention to the chessboard. Spock had long been aware of the brilliant tactical mind of his captain.Jim wouldn't have command of an exploratory vessel – and certainly not one so close to the Neutral Zone – without it, to say nothing of his reputation. Jim, more than anything, was able to quickly adapt his approach to his specific opponent – and it typically required all of Spock's logical reasoning to face the captain on an even playing field. 

The burning lessened and Spock could think, even if it flared now and then like a coronal ejection from a star, predictable yet devastating. Spock was growing tired of being buffeted by the winds. 

Jim and McCoy kept up a steady flow of chatter as they played. Spock offered his input when addressed, but most of his energies were focused on the game, and he made a poor conversationalist. With luck, Jim and McCoy would blame Spock’s project...a misleading truth, to be sure, but one that Spock could hopefully work with. When the burning eased, Spock could simply say the matter was resolved and the matter would be dropped. He just had to last until then. 

McCoy, as if sensing Spock’s thoughts, stretched back in his chair, scratching idly at his neck. Spock’s gaze fell to it, to the arch of his spine, the length of his fingers and the expanse of his neck--could almost smell McCoy’s skin, the doctor’s aftershave, the lingering medicinal smell of sickbay, and underneath it all rust and salt... and Spock moved directly into Jim's trap.

“Check and mate,” Jim said, confident and a bit surprised. Spock frowned and stared at the board. Jim was correct. Spock was in check, his king one move away from being lost. Jim had won.

“Indeed,” Spock said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. “Congratulations, Captain.”

“Jim, Spock,” Jim said, quietly, and far too seriously. What had shown on his face? In his voice? “My name is fine.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Of course, Jim.” He reached out and reset the pieces. “Shall we go again?”

Jim watched him for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “Sure, Spock,” Jim said, and set to replacing his own pieces.

McCoy settled to the ground again and checked his watch. “I'm afraid that's it for me, boys. I'm gonna hit the hay early tonight.” He stood, walking behind Spock’s chair, and Spock stiffened. But McCoy only said, “Enjoy your game.”

“Good night, Doctor,” Spock said, his eyes resolute on the board before him, and missing the concerned look McCoy gave Jim over his head, or the minute shake of Jim’s head.

“Sleep well, Bones,” Jim said, warmly.

McCoy placed a hand on Spock’s shoulder, too far from the pressure points of a neck pinch to do any damage, but the flash of _concern, care,_ heat _, tired_ was damaging in its own way. Spock blinked fast as he tried to process, but just as quickly as the flash had come, the contact was gone, leaving Spock floundering. 

“Rest!” McCoy ordered, far too close to Spock’s ear--he must have bent over. 

Spock nodded, and watched from the corner of his eye as McCoy walked from the lounge.

Only when the door closed behind him did Spock turned back to the game.

Spock won the evening, two out of three games.

***

Spock felt much more even after the third game – as if his victory had banished his demons back to the sands and restored the balance of the universe, as had the heroes in his planet’s mythology. Almost offended by the notion that he was a mythological hero, Spock made a mental note to meditate on that response later. It was not logical to believe that his actions in this matter would have any impact on the nature of the cosmos. 

Spock was also able to follow McCoy's advice and settle down to sleep. His rest was heavy and dreamless, as it was after a particularly vigorous physical training session, and the discoveries of the day before seemed very far away when he woke, the fires dampened to mere embers.

Then McCoy was there for breakfast.

It was far from unusual to meet McCoy at breakfast, as the doctor followed a regular eating schedule for his good health. Spock had no reason to think that there was anything other than his usual pattern of showing up for a meal, but it nevertheless put Spock on edge, and he couldn't escape the notion that McCoy somehow knew of the tape and knew of Spock's reaction to it. (Or maybe his demons were not quite so banished as he had believed.) 

It made Spock snappish, and in the space of a few minutes, he managed to insult McCoy’s intelligence, skill, and the entirety of practical medicine before beating a hasty tactical retreat to the bridge, leaving McCoy bewildered and spluttering in Spock’s wake.

Spock had skipped breakfast before, so when the first pangs of hunger began around mid-shift, Spock was prepared. He was hunched over the science station, and from the wide berth the crew gave him, he must've been announcing his desire to be left alone very clearly. Therefore, there was no-one near when Spock had to close his eyes and focus on suppressing his hunger. After a few moments, a feeling of cool calm settled the rumbling, and he was able to continue.

Yet, it didn't seem to be working as well as it usually did, and when an hour before the end of shift, the lift doors opened to reveal Doctor McCoy, still in his scrubs, Spock was both irritable and hungry. He stared into his viewpiece and refused to move. If he did not engage the doctor, no more damage could be done. 

He heard Jim greet McCoy warmly, and he did his best to tune out McCoy’s answer, ignoring the sudden racing of his pulse. Even his own body seemed to be mocking him. 

Luckily, McCoy did not stay long, and left with little fuss. But when Spock turned at last, there was an orange sitting on the console next to him. (Unlike on Earth, there was no tale of forbidden fruit in Vulcan’s tales of _Sha Ka Ree_ , and an orange would not evoke the same warning as an apple. And yet...)

Spock spent far too long staring at the fruit.

He ate it anyway, and the juices were very sweet. 

***

Two days passed in such a fashion before Jim called to him at the end of his shift. Spock was forced to admit that his mental state has not improved – though he would argue that it had not _significantly_ worsened--and from the look on Jim's face, the captain knew it.

“Mr. Spock,” Jim began, and Spock could see what was coming like he was anticipating the moves of chess. “There is a crew member whose performance of the last few days has begun to decline further than his average deviation from the mean.”

Spock closed his eyes. They had both used this tactic before in reference to the other. There was little logic in denying it. “Captain, I am well aware –”

“Then you understand my concern,” Jim said, interrupting him. Spock closed his mouth and nodded. 

“I do, Captain,” he said. 

Jim stared at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. They were full of compassion, and Spock was honestly unsure if that made the hard edge of the Captain’s resolve better or worse “Then you will report to sickbay for a full examination by Doctor McCoy immediately and without complaint.” 

Spock took a deep breath and let it out evenly. “Yes, Captain.” 

The time had come for him to face his demons after all. 

***

Sickbay, unfortunately, was not empty when Spock arrived (or perhaps fortunately--no good thing happened when the hero walked into the seemingly empty lair of the demon after all). Two of the beds were occupied, one by a Yeoman in command gold who was obviously suffering from a migraine headache, and the other by a lieutenant in engineering red with a deep abrasion on his arm. His uniform shirt was off, and McCoy was applying the dermal regenerator while Nurse Chapel observed. She looked up when Spock walked in. 

“Mr. Spock,” she said in greeting, and Spock nodded at her; her obvious attraction to him had faded in the face of the reality of Spock’s personality, and Spock thought they were both the better for it. If his suspicions were correct, and Spock was suffering from a similar unreciprocated attraction for the Doctor (it did not take a master of logic to come to that deduction given the events of the past few days, but Spock did not have to accept his conclusions with good grace)--it gave Spock a new sympathy for her position. 

McCoy glanced up at him. “Hello, Spock,” he said. “Why don’t you wait for me in my office. I’ll be there as soon as I finish up here. You’re almost done, Rodriguez.” 

Into the demon’s lair. Of course. 

Lt. Rodriguez smiled, though even Spock could see it was a bit forced. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ve never quite gotten used to the feel of those regenerators. Can’t they make one that doesn’t itch?” 

McCoy scowled, though Spock knew his hands would stay gentle. “Better it itches than you bleed all over everyone,” he snapped, and the lieutenant shrugged his free arm, sheepish. 

Spock turned and entered McCoy’s office, shutting the door behind him. 

On the way here, Spock had tried to reason out the best course of action. How much should he confess to, for it was painfully obvious that some confession was necessary? Did the doctor need to know why Spock was distracted, or would it be enough for Spock to say that _he_ knew why he was distracted? Should Spock tell McCoy that the recording of him had been circulating? Should Spock admit to watching it? To _liking_ it? 

Spock fisted his arms behind his back, standing at parade rest as he tried to calm and order his thoughts. 

McCoy entered the office then, coming up on and catching Spock unawares as he had so many times this week--times when Spock _should_ have been aware of him. 

“Well, Spock, I think we both know why you’re here,” McCoy said. He leaned against his desk, half sitting on the edge with a foot braced on the floor. He folded his hands together in his lap: all over, a picture of relaxed attentiveness. 

“Indeed we do, Doctor,” Spock said; his own hands were fisted tight to the point of pain, his posture straight as he stared ahead. 

“Then we can forgo the pleasantries,” McCoy said. He kept his posture open, barely moving--as if _Spock_ was the threat--as if _Spock_ was the one who had disrupted the cool flow of logic in his brain. “I know how much you dislike what you consider to be equivocating, Spock, and I think you’ve been made uncomfortable enough this week.” 

Spock resisted the urge to shift his weight. That was....unexpected. Did the doctor plan to admit to being a source of discomfort? “Indeed, I have, Doctor,” he said quietly, and stopped, realizing that he had nothing else to say. 

McCoy watched him for a moment. “You know why humans engage in such pleasantries, don’t you?” he asked. “Think of it in terms of physics. Inertia. People speaking tend to remain speaking, while people--”

“I understand your metaphor, Doctor, though I find its grasp of the nature of the physics of motion to be rudimentary at best,” Spock said, mostly to buy himself some time. 

McCoy blinked, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to scare me off by insulting me, Spock. You know it won’t--.” 

“I discovered, nearly a week ago in Earth reckoning, a recording being passed around among the crew. While this is nothing new, this particular recording came to my attention when I noticed a quick and furtive attempt to hide the recording in response to my presence when I nearly interrupted a discussion of said recording. This was suspicious, so I investigated and came to find that the recording in question was one that was pornographic in nature.” Spock paused, and McCoy, who had settled back to listen, frowned. 

“So the crew was passing around a masturbatory aid. There’s nothing wrong with that, though I understand that’s not the way things are done in Vulcan society.” He hesitated. “It wasn’t one of those uncouth Vulcans Gone Wild types, was it? You do know there are no actual Vulcans involved, and it’s a terrible fetish for--”

Spock cleared his throat, and braced himself. “The recording in question starred yourself, Doctor.” 

McCoy stopped cold, his mouth snapping shut. A faint flush colored his cheeks and traveled down his throat. His ears turned an alarming shade of red. 

“Oh,” McCoy breathed. “So that little gem has come to the light of day, has it?” He asked, but his voice was distant. 

“So it would seem,” Spock said, and for some reason the Doctor’s unease. “I understand if you want to press charges, though the nature of the event is one that would require a deeper investigation of the Starfleet code of--”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” McCoy said tightly, and Spock raised an eyebrow. Personally, he thought it would be rather necessary. While some humans in Spock’s acquaintance, Mr. Chekov for one, pursued their sexual life rather openly, Spock knew McCoy did not and would prefer not to. This video, then, was in direct opposition to his wishes. 

McCoy sighed, and Spock watched his shoulders lift, his chest expand, and it was no effort at all to picture it sans uniform, naked skin tanned and glistening in the Georgia sunshine--

“I’m not mad, Spock,” McCoy said, and Spock cocked his head. McCoy’s voice was even, his gaze steady and without undue flush or fidget. He spoke truth. “It was fun to do--and not something I honestly put much stock in. I'm a doctor, a damned good one, and a member of starfleet.” He shrugged. “Who I've slept with, and under what circumstances, is my own business.”

Spock blinked, taking a moment to process. That was...not what he had expected. Granted, Spock’s logical processes had been...compromised...but he had anticipated a greater amount of shame on the part of the doctor. “Then it does not bother you that the...film was being passed among the crew?”

Now McCoy shifted uneasily. Fascinating. “Not as such,” McCoy said. “I've seen most of the crew naked, after all, so we're even in that respect--” There was no reason for that statement to arouse jealousy in Spock. None. “And it was meant to be seen, so I can't fault people for watching.” He shifted on his feet. “I didn't really expect to be working with them, but I'm an adult. I'll manage.” He grinned, easy and wide, before it dropped, suddenly. 

“Aw hell, Jim hasn't seen it, has he?”

Spock raised an eyebrow, forcing the jealousy back with a firm shove. Jim was not competition. “Not that I am aware of,” he said. McCoy blew out a breath, sagging a little in relief. 

“Good. That’s all I’d need--I’d never hear the end of it!” McCoy grabbed his own wrist behind his back, bouncing forward a bit on his toes. 

But then McCoy stopped, mid-bounce, and slowly lowered himself to the ground, his eyes fixed on Spock’s face, his eyes dark and unreadable. Spock felt caught, his heart thundering in his ears as the heat flashed through him. He longed to be touching McCoy, to find if the the intensity in his eyes matched the flash of _heat_ he had felt earlier--to learn whether McCoy burned as he did. 

“You saw the video, didn’t you Spock?” 

Spock blinked, slow. His mind felt like lead--the demon had sprung its trap, and the hero was doomed. 

McCoy’s eyes raked over his features. Spock was 99.7% sure that his face had remained impassive, but when McCoy’s eyes darkened further, he was no longer sure. 

“It judged it necessary in order to perform my duties in relation to the well-being of the crew,” Spock said, his voice thick to his ears. 

“So you watched it,” McCoy confirmed. Unnecessarily, in Spock’s opinion. But that was McCoy’s way. 

“I believe I just said as much,” Spock said. 

McCoy nodded, his mouth open, and he ran his tongue over his molars. Spock’s gaze was drawn to that mouth, and he forced his eyes away. 

“What did you think?” McCoy asked, his voice deeper, lower, and Spock shivered. He’d heard that tone before, though the speakers in his quarters, and forced himself to meet McCoy’s gaze.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to critique your performance?” he asked, his tone just a tone too forceful to be flat. McCoy’s grin grew, though his lips did not close. It...shined, impossibly. Spock swallowed. 

“And rate your response,” McCoy said, stepping forward from the table. “That is generally the way those sorts of scenes are judged, Spock.” 

Spock felt warm, the need for air increased and he opened his mouth to try and camouflage the quickening of his breath. “I felt the scene was amateurly recorded--”

“It was amateur porn, Spock, of course it was--”

“But that the subject matter was enrapturing enough capture the viewer’s attention. When I saw it, I felt--” Spock stopped. McCoy stopped just inside Spock’s personal space. Spock felt not unlike he was on the surface of Vulcan during an ion storm, and could nearly smell the ozone in the air. 

It should shame him, to feel this, this *intensity* towards the doctor. This was not the burning time. He was not in Pon Farr. Yet he burned for Leonard, and he thought Leonard might just burn for him, too.

“Yes, Spock?” McCoy prompted. Spock could feel the warmth of him, radiating. Heat bloomed low in Spock’s belly. 

“Angry,” Spock admitted, quietly. Breathless. “Jealous. They had no right to touch you.” 

McCoy leaned in further. It was easy to forget that they were of a height, and McCoy’s mouth hovered just beyond Spock’s reach. When McCoy spoke, Spock could feel the puff of his breath, warm against his lips. 

“And you do?”

 

“I-” Spock said, the protest dying on his lips as McCoy pulled back, slightly, his mouth forming a moue. 

“Shh, Spock,” McCoy eased, but it wasn’t a denial. “I'm not that cruel.” He smiled, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and glittering. “You want to touch me, you need only ask.” 

“I--yes,” Spock said, and it felt like falling. “May I--?” 

“Of course,” McCoy said, even as he raised his hand to tap the center of Spock’s chest, punctuating his words. 

“If. You're. Very. Good.”


	4. Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Close! This is the last official chapter, but expect a coda to come in the next few days!

Spock tried to breathe deeply, but even though his lungs were optimized for a thinner atmosphere, he couldn’t catch his breath. He could barely stop himself from panting, his breathing shallow. 

By the Vulcan Gods, he could _scent_ him. 

This was nothing like the heat of _pon farr_ , where his mind was lost to the fires that raged. This...this _desire_ burned differently. 

He _should_ feel shame, to have his body, his mind, so out of his control--but this _wasn’t_ the rut, and shame was illogical. 

“I think I just broke your brain,” McCoy said, an affectionate observation. The threads of lust still wove through his voice, and all Spock could do was stare. And breathe. And _want_. 

McCoy licked his lips, and Spock swayed forward, wanting to taste, and closed his eyes as the moan, thin and reedy, was pulled from him. 

“ _Hell_ ” McCoy swore softly, stepping back. “Spock--”

“The _pon farr_ is not taught on Vulcan, save for a single conversation between parent and child. The ceremonies are held in near silence, for to admit that we are still bound to this...this... _mindless rut_ is our greatest shame.” 

He paused to try and piece together what to say next, but McCoy got there first; the doctor’s mind was truly incredible. 

“But this isn’t _pon farr_ is it?” McCoy asked. 

“No,” Spock said. “ _Pon farr_ is logical, for all that it is a time of illogic. It is necessary for the species. This...this is not _necessary_.” 

McCoy raised an eyebrow. “I’d argue with that,” he muttered. 

“Not for _the species_ ,” Spock said again, and McCoy’s eyes widened. 

“Not for the species--but it is _logical_ for you.” 

“Sex serves many functions, and is therefore immensely logical, though humans tend not to treat it as such. My desire for you is imminently logical.” 

“Why Spock, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

Spock growled. “You mock me.” 

McCoy should have looked offended, but his expression remained serious. “Never, Spock. Not about this.” 

Spock swallowed his pride--his embarrassment and his shame. “Doctor, I seem to be having a hard time controlling my...baser urges.” 

McCoy’s smiled wryly, not especially gently but affectionately. “That’s kinda the point with sex, Spock,” he said. “You don’t have to be in control.” He paused, looking Spock over, and Spock shuddered as if McCoy’s gaze was a physical thing. “That could be my job.” 

Spock blinked. “I am physically larger, stronger--”

“And?” McCoy asked, crossing his arms though his posture didn’t truly close off. “I am in control.” There was an edge to McCoy’s tone, a snap that penetrated the chaos of emergency that galvanized action--that was _obeyed_. 

Spock bowed his head. 

“Good, Spock,” McCoy said. “Now, first thing--my name is Leonard. Say it.” 

“Leonard,” Spock said, dutifully. He was tense, his muscles trembling with the strain 

“Good,” Mc--Leonard praised. “You need me to stop, for any reason, call me Doctor, understand?” 

“Yes, Leonard.” 

“How do you stop?” 

“I call you Doctor.” 

“Good.” Leonard smiled. “That deserves a reward, I think. Come closer.”

Spock stepped forward, into Leonard’s space--and it was certainly now Leonard’s space--and Leonard tilted Spock’s head for a kiss. 

Spock gasped into the contact, the touch intimate as he felt _heat, mine, affection, awe_ , and the slick glide of tongue against his mouth. He shuddered, his mind going blank in the wake of Leonard’s emotions, and opened--trusting Leonard to catch him. 

Leonard took his time pulling away. He kept his hand on Spock’s chin, the contact pulsing with _heat_ and _mine_ , and the strength evident in those fingers made Spock’s knees weak. 

“My shift ended ten minutes ago,” Leonard said softly. “No doubt M’Benga is waiting to use this space. Go to your quarters and strip. I have some quick tasks to finish here, and I’ll be along as fast as I can--and I want you naked.” 

Spock blinked, willing the words to make sense. FInally, he nodded. 

“Oh, darlin’,” Leonard said softly. “You’re already so far gone, aren’t you?” The hand on Spock’s face shifted to cup his cheek, and Leonard’s thumb brushed the lowest of Spock’s psy-points. 

The flash-- _heat, desire, affection_ \--nearly brought Spock to his knees as the emotion was translated to sensation, and he had to breathe deeply to keep himself from climaxing prematurely. 

When his vision cleared, he was clutching Leonard’s shoulders. Leonard hand him under his arm and at his waist, supporting his weight. 

Leonard’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his grin was _delighted_. 

“Oh, Spock,” he said, and his voice was _reverent_. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

***

Spock thought he would remember little from his trek back to his quarters, and was surprised to not find that so – rather, to find that certain elements of his trek he remembered with full crystal clarity.

The sound of his breath in his ears.

His heart thudding against his side.

The weight of his uniform pants against his erection, trapping him.

The sensitivity of his skin as his clothing rubbed against him. If he were inclined to hyperbole, Spock would say that he could count every thread in the weave against his inner thighs.

If he were so inclined.

Closing the door to his quarters behind him was a welcome relief, a shield where his own had fractured or ripped away completely.

It should be no surprise that it was McCoy – Leonard – who affected him thus. Leonard always excelled at getting under Spock’s skin, and now was no different (everything was different).

Leonard was on his way here.

Leonard was prepared to engage in intercourse with –

With Spock.

Sex.

Perhaps Leonard would tie him the way Spock had seen him tied.

Leonard had said Spock should be naked.

Spock stripped.

He forced himself to move, if not slowly, at least smoothly. His uniform was a symbol of Starfleet – it needed to be treated with respect. So he folded it away, where it would be safe (it was ridiculous to think of it as not bearing witness, so he did not), and placed his underthings in the ship’s laundry.

Standing naked next to his bed, Spock wasn't sure what to do next. His hands flexed, fingertips creeping along his thighs and raising goosebumps.

To work on reports as he waited would be efficient – save that Spock knew he could not trust any report written in his current state, thus doubling the work later.

Meditation, perhaps.

Spock knelt before his altar, bringing his hands together and bowing his head. He felt hyper aware of his own body, unused to being without clothes for this long. Spock forced the emotion away. It served no purpose here.

Yet – try as he might, peace was not coming to his mind, nor do any part of him. His erection had refused to flag, and even now it grew as Spock's mind wandered back to the recording – to Leonard’s tease in his office. 

The timbre of his voice. 

The look in his eyes. 

The understanding that Leonard, impossibly, wanted Spock just as much.

Spock shivered and the door opened. 

Leonard entered the room carrying a small black leather case, not unlike an old Earth style medical bag, and began to speak without looking around. “Spock, I brought a few...” he trailed off when he noticed Spock, still on his knees before his altar. 

Spock watched Leonard’s throat move as he swallowed, watched the shine at his temples as his skin began to glisten. He shifted on his feet, and Spock recognized the movement--to ease constriction. 

“Well now,” Leonard breathed. “I was right. You make a pretty picture, Spock.” 

Spock breathed once, twice, and with deliberation, his limbs heavy with meaning, he moved his hands behind his back. 

Leonard’s breath caught, and Spock knew he recognized the significance of the move. 

“What’s my name, Spock?” he asked, his voice like whiskey, and Spock wondered in some distant part of his mind if this is what Leonard felt when he drank. 

Spock licked dry lips. “Leonard,” he said, his own voice so low it grated harshly on his ears, like metal over stone, but it galvanized Leonard to action. He stepped forward quickly, deft fingers undoing the clasp of his bag. He stopped right before Spock and pulled out a length of rope, holding it to Spock for inspection. 

Leaning in, Spock had to force his brain to take in details. Synth-rope, for it lacked the distinct fibrous quality of natural hemp, but it had been designed to mimic hemp rope quite closely. It smelled more like plant matter than plastics, and the fine threads of the rope gave it a sturdy body that was still quite pliable. Strangely unwilling to move his hands from their position, Spock lifted his jaw to rub his chin against the rope, hearing Leonard’s breathing quicken as he did so. 

The texture of the rope, while smooth, was not the unnatural smoothness of industrial cord, and was quite pleasing against Spock’s skin. No doubt this was why Leonard had obtained this quality of rope--though the quickness of its appearance suggested that Leonard had the rope already procured in his quarters. 

Was Spock not the first subject for this particular length? The thought was...disagreeable. 

Or--had Leonard been the one tied? While the idea of another tying Leonard was also distasteful, Spock had begun to grow used to the idea, having already seen evidence of it. 

Spock would very much like to be the only one Leonard tied in such a manner. He leaned back, looking up at Leonard. “I find it more than sufficient, Leonard.” 

Leonard huffed a laugh. “More the sufficient, Christ.” He shook his head. “You’ll want to stand for this next part, Spock, but if you wish to return to your knees after, you may.” 

A soft start; an order to follow phrased as a request, and limited choice. While Spock longed for the the state of intensity Leonard had shown in the recording, he found he appreciated the slow entry. 

Spock stood, the motion smooth as he unfolded, his hands still behind him. Leonard looked him over, eyes lingering on his chest, his groin. Spock had never liked being on display; vanity was not promoted on Vulcan, and the others in his age group had found far too much lacking in him for Spock to appreciate being observed, but Leonard’s gaze was possessive and frank in a way that Spock found, if not a comfort, at least more than pleasant. 

“Turn around,” Leonard said, and Spock turned. 

Leonard’s hands were warm, and the first touch ( _heat, lust, HEAT_ ) rocked Spock as he stood. Instead of pulling back, however, Leonard held him steady and wrapped the rope quickly around Spock’s wrists, winding the cord up his forearms to nearly his elbow and tucking the ends neatly away. He stepped back suddenly, cutting all contact, and Spock had to shift his feet to keep himself from falling. 

Shoulders pulled back, skin tight across his chest, his back arched--he was pulled taut but never past what he could do. 

“Well, Spock?” Leonard asked. “Do you want to be on your knees? You’ll need to say it out loud.” 

Spock blinked. “Yes,” he said after a moment, and he went to kneel. Leonard caught his elbow just as he started to overbalance, not used to his center of gravity being held in one place, and Spock was lowered gently to the ground. 

In his mind, Spock could see Leonard on the screen, and he moved his legs to mimic that pose--knees spread and erection handing untouched between. 

“Oh, Spock,” Leonard breathed, as if it was _Spock_ who was giving something to _Leonard,_ and not Leonard giving everything to Spock. 

Leonard’s hand went to the top of Spock’s head, smoothing over his hair and petting his head, raking his fingers up the base of Spock’s skull, the scratch of his nails making Spock shiver, his mouth hanging open as he breathed. He could _smell_ Leonard’s arousal, the scent of him thick, and Spock leaned in, pressing his nose against the fasteners of Leonard’s uniform pants. Leonard hissed through his teeth, and the fingers on the back of his head flexed, scratching harder for one brief, incandescent second. 

“Go on,” Leonard said. “Open them.” 

Spock forced his eyes open, blinking up at Leonard. He could not open Leonard’s pants as his hands were tied behind his--oh. Oh, of course. 

Leonard’s uniform tunic hung to regulation length, halfway covering the pants’ zipper closure. Spock nosed along the hem, catching the bottom edge of the fabric and pushing up, exposing the full length of the zipper and the button at the waistband--that the path of pressure from his nose ran alongside Leonard’s erection was a fortunate side-effect. It must have been the correct path, as Leonard raised a shaking hand to hold his shirt out of the way so Spock could lean back and assess. 

Spock licked his bottom lip as he calculated the angle, the correct pressure--and then leaned back in to bite the fabric just above Leonard’s button and gingerly pull it free. Leonard stroked his hand over Spock’s hair when the button popped free, and Spock didn’t bother pulling back before he leaned back in to grip the zipper between his teeth. The metal was uncomfortable on his teeth, but it was a distant concern. He could do this with just the right amount of pressure--the zipper gave and began to slide lower. 

The zipper caught halfway, and Spock tugged once, twice, before he realized the angle meant physics was no longer on his side. It only took him a moment, however, to realize a solution: he spread his knees wider, sinking further down, and the zipper gave easily after that. 

“Fuck, Spock,” Leonard breathed, and Spock nodded. That was, he thought, the idea, after all--though he would not himself be so crude, he rather liked the way Leonard said that word. _Fuck._ It resonated through his chest and brought a similar vibration to Spock. 

The scent of him was thicker now, and Spock nosed in blindly, breathing deeply, wanting nothing more than to _taste_ him. 

Spock pulled roughly at Leonard’s pants, pushing the flaps of fabric out of the way and--

Leonard was not wearing underthings. He chuckled when Spock paused. “Wondered when you’d notice that,” he said, his accent thick. Spock blinked, picturing their confrontation in Leonard’s office. Had he been sans underthings then as well? How easy would it have been for Leonard to have him like this there--to have Spock on his knees, able to fellate him with only the undoing of a zipper. “Don’t tell me that broke that enormous brain of yours,” Leonard said gently. “Do you need me to tell you what do do?” 

Spock swallowed and nodded. 

“Alright, darlin’.” Leonard said. “Suck my cock. Use that pretty mouth of yours. Put that sharp tongue to good use.” 

Spock breathed and sucked the tip of Leonard’s erection into his mouth: it was hot under his tongue, soft and salty-bitter, with the sound of Leonard hissing in his ears. He swirled his tongue, looking for more of that bitterness, and it made his mouth water. Pulling Leonard deeper into his mouth, Spock chased that taste until he had to stop, filled. Spock grunted in protest--he did not have nearly enough of Leonard inside of him. 

“That’s it,” Leonard said, breathless. “Use your tongue. It’s okay--it takes practice to go deeper.” 

If practice was required, then Spock would practice. But for now, he would follow Leonard’s instructions. He ran his tongue along the underside of Leonard’s erection and Leonard hissed. It sounded pained, and Spock made to pull away, but Leonard held him in place. 

“I’m all right,” he said. “But gently, Spock. Human tongues are softer than Vulcan tongues. Go ahead and suck, though, and make some noise. I want to hear you.” 

Spock moaned, suddenly, as if he had been holding it in without realizing, and ran the tip of his tongue gently along the bottom of Leonard’s erection as he pulled back. He had seen Leonard bob his head and hollow his cheeks, so he followed that example and was rewarded when Leonard’s head fell back. 

“Oh, yes, Spock. Just like that, darlin’. Oh, you suck me so well.” Spock could feel his ears heat as the blood rushed through him. He felt dizzy with it, his heart pounding. “You look like you were made for this. Your lips look so good stretched around my cock--and Jesus you’re spread so wide. I’ve got ideas for that spread, darlin’, and I think you’re gonna like it.” 

Spock _whined_ , and he realized saliva was dripping from the corners of his mouth, wetting his cheeks, his chin--he felt _starved_ for it, and he let himself fall into the rhythm as his mind began to white out. 

Leonard groaned deep in his throat, and his grip tightened in Spock’s hair, stopping him and pulling him off. Spock tried to pull back, not yet willing to give up that rhythm, his mouth open and searching. 

“That’s enough for now,” Leonard said. “I said I have plans, and I mean to. You understand?” Spock blinked at him, his eyelids heavy and sticking together. “Spock, what’s my name.” 

Spock had to swallow twice before he could speak--and when he did, his voice was so deep as to be nearly unrecognizable. “Leonard.”

“Fuck,” Leonard said, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed a hand to the base of his erection. He breathed through his nose. “Get on the bed, on your knees facing the headboard.” 

Spock nodded and struggled to his feet. It was significantly harder than the first time, but he managed, nearly overbalancing only once. The bed was almost obscenely soft on his knees after the floor, and Spock struggled to kneel as he had before, with his legs spread wide. It was hard: the bed wanted shift with him and spread him wider. He growled, frustrated, before he felt a warm hand: _affection, warm, heat_ , on the small of his back. 

“Can you go all the way down? Don’t do it, just nod or shake your head.” 

Spock nodded, and he heard Leonard take a deep breath. “We’ll take advantage of that, if not tonight, then soon. Right now, I want you to lean forward.” 

There was no way to lean forward without overbalancing, and Spock hesitated. 

“Spock?” Leonard asked. 

Spock bit his lip. “I’ll fall,” he said. 

“Ah,” Leonard said. “It’s okay, Spock. I’ll help you. You’ll be braced against the bed by your chest and at least one shoulder. Are you ready?” His hands, so deceptively strong, went to Spock’s chest, waiting. Spock thought about it. The position would press his face into the mattress and be--rather undignified, as it would expose--

Oh. 

It would _expose_ him. Spock nodded. 

Leonard pushed gently and Spock let himself fall forward, trusting Leonard to catch him and guide him down. True enough, Spock’s face was soon pressed against the sheets of his bed, and with his legs spread and his arms tied, he was fully open and exposed and _couldn’t move_. His head spun. 

Spock felt Leonard’s hands on his back, scraping his fingers down to his waist before smoothing out over the rounded muscles of his backside. Leonard squeezed, his thumbs teasing along his spread cleft, and Spock felt himself twitch. 

“You ever touch yourself here?” Leonard asked, and Spock pressed his eyes shut, shaking his head as best he could. “I’m going to; is that okay?” 

Spock nodded, the scrape of the cloth feeling far too good against his sensitized skin, and he couldn’t stop moving slightly, feeling the pull and drag of it. 

“Spock. I’m going to need you to speak.” 

“Yes,” Spock said. “Please.” 

Then Leonard was gone, and Spock felt it like a cold shock of water to his system. He shifted, struggling to move, to stand--and then Leonard was back, soothing his hands over Spock’s skin. 

“Shh, I’m sorry, Spock,” Leonard said. “I should have said. I had to get my things. Are you okay? Do you want to continue?” 

Spock settled. It was hard to think; all he wanted was Leonard’s hands on him. “Please,” he said. “Please, don’t ask. Please, _touch_ me.”

“I’m going to put on a glove,” Leonard said. “But I’ll be right here. In fact, open your hand.”   
Spock flexed his right hand and opened his fingers. A moment later, Leonard put a cool plastic bottle in his hand, and Spock held it tightly.

“Hold this,” Leonard said. “By the time we need it, it should be nice and warm.” 

Personal lubricant. It had to be. Spock felt his breath catch. 

Spock craned his neck, struggling to see what Leonard was doing. True to his word, Leonard pressed his knee against Spock’s side, keeping in constant contact as he pulled a pair of synth-latex gloves from his bag, putting them on with the ease of long use. Then he pulled out a small, thin white box--clearly from the medbay’s stores, and Spock frowned. It wasn’t until Leonard opened the box and pulled out a thin sheet of blue synth-latex that Spock realized what was about to happen. He flushed hot even as he felt cold, and he shivered. Leonard looked up and caught Spock looking. He smiled, holding up the synth-late sheet. 

“You know what this is for?” he asked, and Spock nodded. “May I?” Spock frowned, thinking. Leonard waited, his left hand reaching out to pet along Spock’s flank. 

“You desire to use that to stimulate my anus orally,” Spock said, and Leonard was surprised into a laugh. 

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it like that, but yes, Spock. I want to eat you out,” Leonard said, the laugher coloring his voice still. “But I won’t if you don’t want me to.” 

Spock focused on his breathing for a moment. “I admit, when I found descriptions of the activity in my research, I was uncertain how such a thing could be pleasurable.” Leonard nodded, and as always, he heard what Spock did not say. 

“And now?” 

“No,” Spock said, and swallowed. “Now I admit to a certain amount of...curiosity.” 

Leonard grinned. “Then I’m going to satisfy that curiosity,” he said. “Here, let me...” he reached out and took the personal lubricant from Spock, and Spock heard the sound of the cap opening and then closing--and then Leonard was pressing the bottle back into his hand. “Do your best to hold on, but don’t worry if you drop it, okay?” 

“Yes, Leonard,” Spock said, though he thought the caveat was unnecessary. 

Then Leonard placed a lubricated finger against his anus, rubbing in gentle circles around the ring of muscle, and Spock gasped, his hands twitching at the sudden stimulation that was very nearly too intense. 

“All right there, Spock?” Leonard asked, his finger never slowing, never stopping, insurmountable--

_”Yes,”_ Spock whined, and tried to press backwards, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more _anything_ \-- and Leonard chuckled. 

“Good,” he said, and in a move quicker than Spock could track, he had the synth-latex smoothed up against Spock, and his tongue tracing a hard line around the previous track of his finger--and Spock cried out, eyes wide and shocked. 

Leonard didn’t pull away to comment, however, just pressed closer, licking in broad stripes and placing sucking kisses that made him twitch and shiver. He made a point of his tongue, flicking against the sensitive skin, and Spock shook. He was moaning with each breath, high breathy sounds that would have embarrassed him at any other time, but he had no time to spare to be concerned about such _trivialities,_ when his entire being was focused through points of contact--where he could _feel_ Leonard touching him, giving him such _pleasure_ \--

Spock cried out when the pleasure began to roil inside of him, rising up like swells in an ancient sea and tried to pull him under. He moved, his hips undulating with the tide, rolling against Leonard’s mouth, but Leonard simply moved with him when he could--and held him still when he could not, making Spock thrash and moan louder. 

Leonard pulled back, keeping a constant pressure with a finger. “Can you come like this? Will you come like this? Fuck, Spock, can you come more than once?” 

“ _Yes!_ Spock cried out--and came, the passion rolling thunderous through his brain as his body pulled tight and he felt his release soaking through the sheets beneath him. 

“God _damn_ , Spock,” Leonard said. “Say you can come again?” 

Spock, lust-drunk and still twitching because _Leonard’s finger was still moving,_ could only nod, desperately. He could--and he would, and soon, if Leonard didn’t stop.

Dropping the synth-latex, Leonard rubbed Spock’s hole with his thumb, his fingertips curling under him to press behind his testicles, no longer fully swollen but still fully extended. It made Spock moan, and moan again when Leonard reared up over him, pressing his _still clothed_ chest to Spock’s back. 

Leonard licked a stripe up Spock’s ear, flicking his tongue against the point, and Spock gasped. “Can I fuck you, Spock?” he bit gently, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Please?” 

_”Yes,_ Spock rasped, and found himself breached with a slicked finger. It was strange, and Spock had to focus on not fighting it--and yet, it wasn’t as hard as he thought it might be; his muscles were still loose from his orgasm, and Leonard had been slowly working the muscle loose with his tongue. So, it was with little resistance that Leonard was able to sink his finger in fully. 

It was still torturously slow, and Spock began to feel impatient--until Leonard began to move, thrusting shallowly. Spock rocked with it, meeting his hand as sparks danced along his nerves at the touch. Soon, Leonard was able to press inside with a second finger, and then a third, pausing only briefly to add more lubricant until Spock felt like he was gaping wide and dripping. 

Leonard pulled away, and Spock protested, trying to thrust back, but he could find no purchase and his arms were _still_ tied. “Easy,” Leonard said, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirts up over his head. “I’m right here,” he said, and he was. He pressed his erection against the slicked cleft of Spock’s ass as he reached for a condom, opening the packet and rolling it on with deft fingers.

He pulled back and Spock felt the hot, blunt end of his cock press against him. “Okay, Spock,” Leonard said. “Don’t forget to breathe.” 

Spock took a deep breath, and Leonard pushed in, slow but unceasing until the head of his cock was fully inside of Spock. 

“Breathe,” Leonard said, petting Spock’s hip, and Spock let out the breath he had been holding. On his next breath in, Leonard began to move, pushing slowly in, speaking a soft litany of “fuck, Spock, fuck” under his breath. 

Spock knew, now, how deceptively large Leonard’s cock was, and yet it still surprised him when Leonard was still pushing in far past Spock’s estimate. Spock was filled, Leonard deep inside him and making him gasp and writhe and then Leonard was in, his hips pressed against Spock’s ass. 

“That’s it,” Leonard said, stilling. “So good, you’re so good.” He rocked a bit, just as small movement forward and back, and Spock gasped. “So _fucking_ good,” Leonard moaned. “Can I move? Tell me I can move.” 

Spock clenched down, and Leonard cried out, hips snapping in and out, rocking Spock forward and hitting something that made lights explode behind Spock’s eyes. 

“ _Move,_ ” Spock fairly roared, desperate for that feeling again, and with a soft curse, Leonard _moved,_ fucking into him hard and fast and deep, hitting that spot every third thrust, making Spock struggle and strain. 

“Hold on,” Leonard said, pulling out and gripping Spock’s hips. The world went spinning, and Spock found himself sitting in Leonard’s lap, his erection bumping up against Spock’s hands. Spock opened his fingers, trying to get a grip, and Leonard hissed, pushing him forward and away. Spock whined, he didn’t want to go--and then he felt Leonard’s cock at his hole once more, and he pressed back, finally able to move as he sank down into Leonard’s cock. 

“There,” Leonard said. “Now I want to see you fuck yourself on my cock.” 

Lifting himself as much as he could, Spock let himself fall back down, filling himself. On the third thrust he realized he now controlled the angle, and shifted back so that the next thrust hit that spot--and Spock was lost. He was barely aware of his own frantic pace, though he nearly howled when Leonard finally thrust up to meet his him, sinking himself even deeper. 

Spock didn’t last long after that. He had no clear memory of how long he fucked himself on Leonard’s cock, but it was long enough that his thighs burned with the strain of it when he finally, finally, came. 

He was distantly aware of Leonard swearing, his mouth biting down on Spock’s shoulder, a bright flare of sensation that never quite made it to pain. He moved when Leonard moved him, whimpering slightly when Leonard pulled free. He watched without blinking as Leonard rid himself of the used condom and wet a clean cloth to wipe them both down. He sighed when Leonard untied his hands and rubbed sensation back into his arms with strong, sure strokes. 

Leonard seemed oddly hesitant after that for a man who had, just recently had his sexual organ inside Spock’s rectum. Spock patted the bed next to him, and Leonard sat gingerly. There was an odd smile on his face, one that Spock was too tired to think too deeply about. 

“You all right, d--,” Leonard cut himself off, and Spock cocked his head. He held out his hands, offering his first two fingers to Leonard. Leonard looked at him in surprise, but held out his own hand as well. 

“You may call me ‘darling’ if you wish,” Spock said softly, running his fingers down Leonard’s in a slow, caressing kiss. “Though I do ask that you refrain while we are both on duty.” 

Leonard’s smile warmed a bit at that. “Sure thing, darlin’,” he said. “Now scoot. I don’t know if Vulcans cuddle, but this human does. Especially after a night like tonight.” 

Spock was forced to stand for a brief moment, just long enough to pull down the covers and for them both to climb inside the bed. It was a tight fit--single crew quarters had a standard-issue twin-sized bed, but with Leonard’s head tucked under Spock’s chin, and his legs tangled with Spock’s, they made it work.


	5. Equilibrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you everybody!

Spock approached the lounge with quick strides, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked. Crew members stepped quickly out of his way, not willing to get in the way of whatever duty brought him forth at such a pace. He paused outside of the doors, taking a moment to run a hand over his hair, making sure that it was smoothed into place, and walked inside as if he had not just been hurrying through the halls. 

Jim was at their usual chess table, the board already set for their game. He had a plate in his hands, filled with some sort of green salad, and a long-suffering expression on his face. Next to him, Leonard was leaning forward in his chair, speaking quietly, but just as clearly berating Jim about his diet. Spock hesitated when he saw Leonard, his breath catching as it always did these days when he saw his lover. 

Leonard, true to form, looked up just in time to see Spock hesitate, and his face was lit by a brilliant grin. Spock felt drawn forward; Leonard always wore his joy so fiercely. 

Thinking himself forgotten, Jim slumped a little in relief and put the salad on the table. The sound of it was enough to bring Leonard’s attention back to him, and Leonard turned to glare. 

“Please, Bones,” Jim said, and Spock thought he sounded very tired. They were due for shore leave soon; Spock would have to make sure that Jim took his share of leave, even if it meant foregoing his own plans with Leonard and a planet-bound full-sized bed. 

(“Live a little, Spock,” murmured the Leonard in his memory as he leaned over Spock’s shoulder, peering at the hotel confirmation page. “Request the king.” Spock, shivering, had agreed). 

Spock sat in his chair, holding his fingers out to Leonard at the height of the table, pleased when Leonard reached back without hesitation. Vulcan public displays of affection were by their very nature discreet, and many of them were alien enough to human mentalities that they were not recognized for what they were. When the level of conversation around them did not change, Spock knew he and Leonard continued undetected, as they had these past three months. 

(And what months they had been. Spock had spent the first few weeks dazed with affection and lust and touch freely given. Leonard had been little better, his wide grin ever-present and infectious. Uhura had commented once that she rather liked this happier McCoy, as his good mood seemed to bring the whole ship up. In fact, the only crewmember who seemed disturbed my McCoy’s good mood was Scotty--who had shaken his head and loudly proclaimed that he “didnae need the _details_!” when Leonard had presented him with a bottle of aged scotch as a thank you.) 

Jim knew. Of course Jim knew. Spock had long since stopped trying to hide many things from his captain, and he knew that Jim would be happy for his friends. At Leonard’s request, the specifics of their decision to pursue a romantic and sexual relationship were kept to themselves, as (“If Jim finds out, we’ll never get a moment’s peace!”). Spock had no issues agreeing. As comfortable as he was becoming discussing sexual matters, and as much as he understood the need in humans, he would rather his own desires remained private. 

“Spock,” Jim said, faintly pleading. “Can you please tell Bones to leave off my food? I just wanted a chicken sandwich.” 

Leonard scowled. “You need some damn variety in your diet, Jim! Not to mention some green leafy vegetables--you’re not in your twenties anymore!” 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I am sorry, Jim. I have long since refrained from contradicting Leonard when it comes to medical matters. As Chief Medical Officer--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim said, waving him off and grumbling. “I’ll eat the damned salad. You really know how to make a guy’s evening, you know that?” 

Spock tilted his head. “I did,” he said, and Leonard threw his head back with laughter. After a moment, Jim laughed as well. He even took a bite of his salad without complaint. 

In the corner of the room, a familiar group of crewmembers from engineering laughed delightedly over something on a datapad. Spock watched them for a moment and noticed the way they hid it away when Sulu walked into the lounge. 

Spock thought about it, and instead turned back to his game.


End file.
